That is a kind of strength no one applauds, because it looks, from the outside, exactly like weakness.

There is no glory in it.

No one watching me swallow my rage and smile at the man who burned me would have called me strong; they would have called me a doormat, a woman with no self-respect, and I had to let them think it, which was its own daily humiliation stacked on top of all the others.

But the loud, self-respecting explosion is a luxury, and it is a luxury paid for by the person who indulges it, because it feels wonderful for an instant and then hands your enemy everything he needs to see you coming.

I could not afford that luxury.